Harry Potter and the Prophesy of Death
by Mr. Zemme
Summary: My version of Year 5. What if Harry wasn't quite the set upon wimp we find in OOtP? Wouldn't it all turn out better? Maybe not... Oh, and while we're at it, let's actually make him a fifteen year old celebrity with insecurity issues who confronted death for the fourth time. Warnings: Character death duh? , mild violence moderate in the penultimate chapter , suggestive se


_Harry Potter and the Prophesy of Death_

Chapter 1: Death's Remembrance; Summer's Beginning

A boy sat on the edge of his bed. His hair was pitch-black, lying layered over his face, slick with sweat. His eyes, once a vibrant green and now barely green at all, stared vacant before him, acknowledging nothing. He was a very pathetic little creature.

And I should know, for that pathetic little creature was me. It's odd. You can know that you're pathetic, know that you're doing nothing productive, know, in fact, that you need to do something more than just sit on your ass staring off into space. And yet – and yet! – you can be completely unable to do anything more than just that. And so it was for me.

Hi, my name is Harry Potter. I'm fourteen years old, a Wizard, youngest seeker in a century, The-Boy-Who-Lived, more famous than anyone but Dumbledore, wealthier than I ever imagined I could be, and sitting on the edge of my bed wanting to curl up into a little ball and die.

Ironically, I don't even have the energy for that.

See, the problem is that Voldemort lives. He's the one from whom I lived, as in he's The-Man-Who-Failed-To-Kill-The-Boy-Who-Lived. That alone might not sound that impressive, but considering that only Albus Dumbledore, Alastor Moody, and Amelia Bones have ever survived him (ignoring Neville Longbottom's parents who are now in hospital because of Voldemort's crazy sidekicks), it's fairly impressive that I'm alive even though he's taken it into his head to kill me. Add to that the fact that I've escaped him – in one form or another – four times, and it becomes even more impressive, as only the vaunted Albus Dumbledore has managed that. Add to _that_ the fact that he's hit me with a Killing Curse and I didn't die, and I now have a legend. And yet, to add to all of that, since I'm Harry – Fucking – Potter, and all of that alone can't be quite impressive enough, his curse rebounded on him and destroyed his body for thirteen years. And that, ladies and gentleman, is why I'm famous.

So why am I depressed you ask? First, I'd like to point out that I hate the word depressed. It doesn't really mean anything. I am not truly sad, at least in the standard understanding of the word. I don't really cry. I don't moan about the unfairness of it all. I don't – oh fuck it – I'm whatever-the-hell I am because Voldemort returned to his body barely a fortnight ago, and he used my idiocy to accomplish it.

But that's not even why I can't sleep.

I can't sleep because death haunts me. That's right, the guy with the scythe; he's after my blood. He's behind my eyelids, under my nose, and in my chest. Although I've never died myself, my body regularly shakes with the pain of Death. _Cedric, Mum, Dad_. And as the sun set on this day, on my childhood, on the wizarding world's peace, I – Mr. Harry James Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived – lived oblivious to the glorious red light streaming through my window. Sitting in the smallest bedroom of 4 Privet Drive, I pondered the wizarding world that I had left just last week.

A shrieked command and a flash a green light blitzed through my mind and I suffered the indignity of whimpering, collapsing back into myself, falling off my bed, and allowing a half-moan, half-sob to escape.

Okay, maybe I was depressed.

But you can't blame me. No matter what I did, I saw red eyes, vacant brown eyes, and a skeleton emerging from a cauldron. I heard an evil laugh – the harbinger of death. I lay on the ground before my bed for time without meaning. I looked at the blank wall next to my bed or across the room from it, stared into it as if I could see each atom. I thought of death and of my world – soon the two shall meet. I did not hear the calls from downstairs, nor did I hear the pounding that carried a large body up those stairs. I did, however, start aware when the banging with the banging at my door – a rap that sounded like spellfire. I heard a voice shouting through the door.

I want to take a little break from my story to explain a complication. I talked about the fact that I didn't notice the "glorious red light streaming through my window." If that were the case, one might wonder how I could comment upon it now. There are, of course, two options. First, I noticed it in the back of my mind at the time and only have come to realize that I was oblivious to it upon reflection. Second, I made it up.

I'll leave it to you to figure out which one of those it is.

But where was I? Oh yeah – so, there was a pounding on the door, and I heard the voice of my fat cousin Dudley. "Hey freak!" I waited, hoping without actual hope that he would ignore me and continue past. Dudley did continue, but not in fulfilment of my desire. "They want you down for lunch," and then, pausing and lowering his voice not nearly enough to be misheard, Dudley added, "Although I don't know why." Then he stomped off back down the stairs.

I didn't actually know why either. They had never wanted me for dinner before. But they pretty much hadn't seen me all summer – the week of hell that it had been – and so they might be concerned. Oh, not for me of course, but they were experts at self-preservation, and I'm sure they were worried about what the wizarding world would do to them if I happened to kill myself.

But I couldn't go down. My stomach clenched at the very thought of dinner. How could I eat when Cedric would never eat again? I slowly stood anyway, not fully conscious of my movement. While standing, I looked at a battered textbook from my second year, lying haphazardly on the floor. What was the point? Cedric was dead and I could do nothing, nothing, nothing.

A voice screeched from below. My Aunt was not a patient person. My Uncle was less patient. There would be hell to pay if I didn't move. But what could they do? They learnt early on that hitting me barely hurt. And, despite how cruel they were, they were rarely violent people – Vernon, my Uncle, was all bark.

Dudley once pushed me out of a fourth story window at our local school. The teacher screeched like a banshee as I feel. I landed with a thud, but didn't really hurt myself. I was too busy trying to save a beloved book on which Dudley had dumped his soda, which, now that I've said it, simultaneously seems like a non sequitur and suggests that I could have made a good Ravenclaw.

The only times they really hurt me were when they were trying to kill me, which wasn't often. Dudley once pushed me in front of a car moving at about forty kilometres. I got fairly cut up, but I didn't even break anything. Aunt Petunia hit me on the head with an exceptionally hot frying pan. I got a small burn and a bump on my head. Vernon once hit me with a hammer as hard as he could. That time I broke my arm, but it healed within the week without needing to go to hospital.

At first, I thought that all of this was just blind luck on my part. I thought that maybe it was the universe's way of compensating for all the crap that the Dursleys put me through. But no, I figured out what it was at Hogwarts. My first clue was when I saw Neville fall off his broom from two metres straight onto his wrist and only sprain it. But it really sunk it when I realized that Quidditch– the best game in the world, by the way – involved players flying at speeds often over 150 kilometres, while other players smacked ten bound iron balls at them, which could themselves reach speeds of almost 100 kilometres on their own. Actually, it really sunk in when I realized all of that and then further realized that the worst injury that a Quidditch player usually suffered was a broken arm.

In short, wizards are just far more resilient than muggles.

Anyways, I rather went on a tangent there, but during the whole time my Aunt was still shouting her lungs out, so you actually didn't miss anything, and I just couldn't seem to find the energy to care. I stood there, looking at a second year textbook, trying to figure out what the point was.

Another screech. I didn't movement. A bellow and a screech simultaneously. Ha! My Uncle had gotten into it. Still I didn't movement. Pounding on the stairs. Oh no, I thought, as I finally moved. My first thought was, in retrospect, ridiculous. I thought there were Death Eaters in the house. Of course, if that had been the case, then there would have been shouting and spellfire from below.

Still, I reacted without thinking and sprang across the room to pick up my wand – Eleven inches and phoenix feather. I turned with my wand on the door just as it burst open. There, flanked by the white light of the hall, like some ironic depiction of heroism, stood my uncle – panting, purple-faced, and salivating.

He bellowed and my ears felt like they'd fallen off. "WHAT IN THE RUDDY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING FREAK! WE ARE NICE ENOUGH TO PLACE A ROOM OVER YOU FILTHY LITTLE HEAD EVERY BLOODY YEAR. WE ARE EVEN DECENT ENOUGH TO FEED YOU INSTEAD OF SENDING YOU TO THE POOR HOUSE LIKE YOU DESERVE. DO YOU THINK WE'RE YOUR BLOODY ROOM SERVICE TOO?"

At least I understood why they wanted me downstairs now.

Vernon continued in a lower voice, made more dangerous by its stillness, "you-will-come-down-this instant..." My Uncle trailed off as he stared at my half-extended arm, wand hanging loosely at its end. His face quickly changed from purple to white, and then more slowly back to purple again, purple with a sickly sweet smile.

He then made the most disgusting cooing noise I had ever heard, saying, "You think you're tough, huh? Think you could scare me."

I could feel my eyes go wide and my eyebrows knit together, but my clear confusion did not dissuade my Vernon from this opinion. To this day, I have found nothing that can dissuade my Uncle from his opinions.

"But you're not allowed to do your tricks, are you boy?" Vernon started advancing on me now, puncturing every word with a movement, "And. You're. Too. Weak. To. Do. Anything. Else." He stood before me, and I finally registered what he was so angry about. I tried to explain that I had no intension of using magic on him, that I had thought he was a Death Eater, but he cut me off as soon as I opened my mouth. "There's no fight in you. No fight whatsoever."

I knew it was coming the moment before it did. The air rushed out of my stomach just as I registered where Vernon was aiming his punch. I stayed standing, as both of us probably expected. He was a muggle and he couldn't really hurt me. Another fist connected with my face and I just took it. It barely hurt. My Uncle had nothing on Voldemort's cruciatus.

But I hadn't seen the gleam in Vernon's eye, or at least I hadn't interpreted it right. The next thing I know, I tasted blood and was looking to the side. My bloody Uncle brought a large wrench up. I was stronger than I was when he broke my arm with his hammer, but it still hurt like a bitch.

With a bloodthirsty laugh, he wacked me with the wrench again and again. He hit my head again, then my arm, then my shoulder, then my stomach. By this time, I was on my knees. My wand had dropped to the ground. He hit me one last time across the face, a particularly vicious sideswipe.

I fell to the ground and let unconsciousness slowly filter into my vision. The last thing I heard was my Uncle saying, ""nope... no fight at all. You've lost your lunch, freak."

*** Potter Break ***

Outside 4 Privet Drive, a grizzled and scarred man stood under an invisibility cloak. His normal eye peered around the neighbourhood, taking in everything – no people, two cats (non-magical), seven bats (non-magical), one owl (magical), all safe. His magical eye was turned backwards in its socket, staring through the wall and into the smallest room of the house. A scowl further disfigured the man's face, turning his visage from frightening to fearsome. A moment's pause and then a loud crack echoed down the empty street.

*** Potter Break ***

I awoke to the banging of a door and shouting. My eyes weren't opened yet but my head felt like it was. After several seconds, I made out the voices, at least their number. There were to voices shouting at a third firm voice. Slowly, the third voice rose until all three voices were shouting.

That's when I sat up, opening my eyes to stare at the bleary floor. I looked around the room and everything was fuzzy. It took me several seconds to realize that my glasses weren't on my face. I groped blindly for a while as all three voices continued to rise. Finally, I found the glasses and returned them to my face, only to realize that not all of the bleariness I saw came from their absence.

I stood, which took more energy than it should have. I wobbled for a second; my feet felt uneven, and that's when I truly noticed how much my head hurt. I put my hand up to my face and jumped back in surprise. I nearly tripped but didn't notice. My hand was slick with blood. I let out a groan, I grabbed some rags left over from Dudley. I then went over to Hedwig's cage and with a few words of apology to a cage that I hadn't noticed was empty, stole some of her water.

I sat down again and started to clean the side of my head. It just made the headache worse. The screaming from downstairs made the headache worse too. I didn't seem to be getting any of the blood off either, so I stood up again, swaying somewhat dangerously. Walking over to the half-broken mirror in the corner of my room, I kicked several of Dudley's toys out of my way and collapsed back to the ground.

Cleaning blood off my face was much easier before the mirror.

The calming rhythm of cleaning my face allowed my brain time to relax. As it relaxed, it was able to focus fully on the voices downstairs. They all sounded familiar, but were too mangled for me to make out any single voice. Then one voice stopped, and I recognized the other two as my Aunt and Uncle. I had no idea why they were shouting, or at whom they were shouting. I had never heard them lay into anyone like this, except me of course.

For a second I contemplated the possibility that they were yelling at me, but even my addled brain figured out that that was impossible.

Suddenly, both my Aunt and Uncle stopped yelling – seemingly in the middle of their sentence. This was followed directly by two thuds of something heavy hitting the ground. And my body reacted against Death Eaters again. I was across the room before I knew what was happening, my vision suddenly perfectly clear. I couldn't find my wand and I started to panic. I looked on my bedside table and it wasn't there.

I could feel the air rushing in and out of my lungs. I heard footfalls on the steps, hushed as if trying to remain unheard. My panic spiked again and I whispered despondently, "where is that damn wand." An object flew towards me and I reacted just as you would expect a trained Seeker to react. My hand thrust out and I caught what turned out to be my wand.

"How the hell?"

I didn't have time to contemplate it as I heard the door open. I turned around, the words to a disarming spell on my slips. My breathing was no longer ragged, my heart no longer raced, and my eyesight was still clear. I was ready.

I also sagged in relief, letting out a ragged laugh, when I saw who it was. Standing before me was no a Death Eater but Sirius Black – escaped convict, innocent victim, and my godfather. He stood framed in the doorway, his eyes wide and searching frantically but obviously not seeing.

My laugh seemed to jerk him out of his stupor and he quickly crushed me in a hug. The hug was frightening and wonderful all at once. I wasn't scared of him, you must understand, it was just that so few people had hugged me and so many people had tried to hit me, that my instant reaction to sudden movement was to flinch back and stiffen. Sirius, Ginny, and Hermione (along with several other _special_ people) would help me with this fear over the next several years. Because my hugging instincts were so atrophied, I reacted slowly in putting my arms around him. We stayed that way, in a sort of shocked bliss, for rather a while.

Right as I was about to say something, Sirius pulled back, and I got to see his face for the first time in what felt like months. It had filled out, become obviously healthier. At the same time, Sirius's eyes, usually detached from the world, were now filled with a haunting pain and a frantic need.

When our eyes met, I took in a shuttered breath. I couldn't describe what emotion overcame me, but I knew what tears were and I knew that chest pains were never good. Still, why did I feel this way when looking at Sirius?

For his part, Sirius's eyes softened and the frantic need was replaced by an emotion that I couldn't describe. His anxiety remained.

Then, just as I was about to say something again, Sirius crushed me back into his embrace. We stood there, unmoving. And my bewilderment was slowly replaced by wonder and a rush of warmth that made me want to cry – an emotion for which I had no name. Hermione had hugged me several times, in greeting, or if I was rushing off to my death. And Mrs. Weasley tried to crush me to that death every time she saw me. But I'd never been hugged like this.

It was warm and firm but not suffocating. It promised protection and aid, but didn't try to stifle. It had a desperation about it that resonated deep within my gut, and I shuddered for a moment against Sirius's shaking body at the realization that we were far too similar. Sirius might actually know what I went through growing up. Then I shuddered again, realizing that Sirius was crying.

"Sirius..." I said, barely loud enough for me to hear inside my own head.

There was no reply, but I felt compelled to hug him closer. The reaction was automatic, almost like a spasm. And I breathed deeply, smelling musk, cinnamon, and a faint aroma of wet dog.

I breathed deeply again, thinking that this was what it must smell like to be home. It was several seconds later that I tasted salt water and realized that I was crying. Not just had tears in my eyes, I was full-out crying. I hadn't cried since I was three and Vernon told me to shut up or he would whip me.

It felt surprisingly good.

I don't know how long we stood there crying, but eventually we let go of each other. It seemed as if by mutual agreement, but I have no recollection of us communicating at all.

He looked at me, "are you alright?"

"Yeah." I was confused. Sirius seemed to be asking more than about the recent mutual cry.

He raised his hand to my face, and that's when I remembered that I had been bleeding. "You don't look fine," he said with a frown.

"Oh... yeah... that. It's fine, though. It's probably already healed. These wounds never last long."

I had tried to assure him, but something in what I said seemed to be the exact wrong thing to say. Sirius reeled back as if struck, and then became deathly still. With a gravelly voice, he asked, "How experienced are you with these types of wounds?"

And that's when I figured out why Sirius was so distraught. "I'm fine Sirius. It doesn't matter."

"Bullshit. I can see your face Harry. You can't lie to me about that."

"Seriously, I'm fine. It's nothing that I can't handle."

"Handle... handle... Harry, how often has he done this?"

"Never."

"Bullshit."

"Fine, not never but not often either. There were a couple of instances but they were all mistakes."

"Mistakes, is that what he tells you? That it was a _mistake_ to come at you with a metal club?"

It took me a second to figure out that Sirius meant a wrench when he said "metal club." I shook my head to clear it, trying to figure out something to say to Sirius that would make him understand that it wasn't important.

Sirius took advantage of my silence. "See kiddo, even you know that it's not fine."

"It is though Sirius. I'm fine now. The cut will be fixed tomorrow. There is no need to hassle about it. They don't want me here, and –"

"—And you think that justifies it? Harry, they're your relatives!"

I had to laugh at that, but by the shocked look on Sirius's face, my laugh must have been cruel. "Only in blood Sirius. They're not my family or anything. They don't want me here. I was thrust upon them, and the less I have to deal with them, the better we'll all be. I just have to stay—"

"—This is not your fault!" Sirius growled out. "He's the one who can't keep his hands to himself. He's the one at fault."

"Whatever, I don't care about fault. It's their life I'm ruining, being here."

"What about your life?"

I could only shrug. I barely understood the question. Was I supposed to be angry that they hated me? I guess I could have yelled and screamed about the injustice of it all, how I should have been treated fairly by them and not blamed for things over which I had no control, up to and including my early impositions on their 'hospitality.' But they had made sacrifices too. We were all thrust into this shit show together, and I just wanted out as fast as I could get.

I tried to explain that to Sirius. "Sirius, I'm the one imposing. I'm the one who is dumped here year after year to interrupt their perfectly normal life. I'm the one who has weird friend, weird needs, and weird creatures that surround me and make their lives a living hell. Did you know that three years ago a house elf ruined any chance Vernon had to get a promotion just in an attempt to protect me?"

"But none of that's your fault."

"It's not theirs either!" And I noticed that I was panting in suppressed rage. He didn't get it. And, after we shared such comfort earlier, I didn't want to ruin it all with this fight. "Could we please drop it, Sirius, please."

"Fine. Just answer me one question: how often have they hurt you?"

"Including this time, it's been four. Petunia once hit me with a pan, Dudley once pushed me in front of a car, and Vernon once with a hammer, which was kind of like today except it did more damage. Now, can we give it a rest?"

"Sure kiddo, sure."

There was a long pause. Neither of us seemed to know quite what to say to the other. Sirius tried a small smile, which I tried to return. I'm sure my smile seemed more like a grimace. Sirius's certainly did.

Then Sirius spoke up, "you still don't deserve it."

With an exasperated sigh I countered, "of course I don't deserve this Sirius! Who deserves this?" Pause. "Well, maybe Voldemort, but that's about it." A shadow of bright green light flashed through my conscious mind.

"Then why protect them?"

"Because they're not worth it Sirius!" I saw his sceptical look, so I went on. "They're useless human beings – Vernon especially. But they're not worth the trouble, or the danger, of you doing anything really nasty to them. Plus, how could I explain it to the ministry? Oh sorry Minister Fudge, I know you're disinclined to–"

"Disinclined Harry?" Sirius said with a twisted smile

"Hush Sirius, I'm talking" I said, managing to keep a straight face, giving my line all the seriousness necessary to make it farcical. "As I was saying – I know you're disinclined," I put extra emphasis on the word this time, "to believe me now anyways, what with the whole I want you to believe Voldemort is back and you're hiding behind your mother's skirt in fear, you pathetic excuse for a man. But I just happened to have my Godfather – Sirius Black, you remember him, escaped convict, only person to escape from Azkabam, and credited with the murders I told you that the little fucker Wormtail actually committed but you were too stupid to notice – _anyways_, my Godfather came over and was so interested in my safety that, after my pig of a relative hit me because I was careless and–"

"You weren't –"

"No Sirius." And all my humour left. He had to hear this. "I was careless. I'm not saying I was wrong or he was right, just that I was careless. I knew that he gets angry when he's ignored. I knew that Grunnings is having some difficulty. I knew these things, and just because I'm right didn't make me any less careless."

Sirius just looked at me, appraising, as if he had never seen me before in his life. It lasted for a while and was actually making me rather uncomfortable.

Before I could change topics, Sirius said, with a soft touch of a sad smile, "You've grown up kiddo. You're less the boy than you were even three months ago."

I was so focused on the turmoil that threatened my inward calm that I couldn't tell what my face was doing. Later, Sirius told me that it looked as if he had just killed my puppy. What I noticed even at the time was the venom I put into my response. "Yeah – that's what happens when a game you were entered into goes tits up, you watch a friend murdered right in front of you, and the resurrection of Mr. Lord Arse-Head happens in no small part thanks to your own blood. This, of course, all before you have to fight said evil prick and see the ghosts of your murdered parents whom you've never known come out of the prick's wand."

I was breathing hard again, and I could hear the echo of the last part of that rant off the walls.

There was a pause just long enough to make me uncomfortable before Sirius interjected, "'Tits up' and 'Mr. Lord Arse-Head,' Harry?" Another pause. "Yup, you're not a kid anymore."

And for whatever reason humour has its power, both of us exploded into peals of laughter that left us breathless and crying.

After several straggling laughs, I continued, calmer and softer than before. "Yeah... I am no child. But you want to know the worst part Sirius?" He nodded. "I know that Dumbledore knows why Voldemort wants me dead. I know Dumbledore knows why I'm number one of Voldemort's shit list, but he won't tell me. Why?"

I didn't know whether I was asking Sirius to explain it to me or asking why Dumbledore wouldn't tell me, or both. Sirius decided to answer the second question with a sigh.

"Kiddo, sometimes adults just want a kid – no matter how mature – to remain a kid. Your grandfather was like that. He told James to stay out of the war. It was for grown-ups, he said. Obviously, that reasoning didn't go over so well and both your parents joined right up. In fact, your dad and his grandfather didn't speak for several months right after we all graduated because James was off fighting for Dumbledore. It took the death of your Uncle Patrick before James and your grandfather reconciled.

"I think Dumbledore's trying to do the same with you." He sighed again. "It's just a thing adults do," Sirius finished lamely.

I couldn't even breathe for a moment. No one had told me that I had had an Uncle. No one even hinted at it. They talked about my father and mother as if they were irresistible powers without attachments. Of course, I knew of my mother's family – at least as far as Aunt Petunia was family. But, to hear that I had an Uncle.

I felt ill. But Sirius's willingness to tell me about my Uncle Patrick just re-enforced my point.

"But you've never treated me like that! You've given me advice, you've told me when I was being an idiot, like with Ron last year, but you've never held things from me. I mean, I didn't even know I had had an Uncle before you told me."

A pained look crossed Sirius's face momentarily. He voice was both bitter and brittle when he replied, "Yeah, well, no one seems to think of me as the perfect guardian for you either Harry."

"I do!" I said immediately, although if given time to reflect I would have admitted that I didn't know what kind of guardian I truly wanted, let alone needed. Still, Sirius was the best adult I had ever known, or at least the most helpful. He had always been there, always helpful, always encouraging, always challenging – never angry, disparaging, or demeaning, but always slightly critical. As I gazed into Sirius's eyes, trying to convey the honesty I felt, I saw years of Azkaban melt from his face.

Sirius let out a great laugh and picked me up. Or, at least, he tried to pick me up. He also tried to spin me around. We both collapsed on the floor instead, laughing again.

Abandoned by fate, chance, and Voldemort's machinations we were no longer. When we pulled ourselves off the floor, still chuckling occasionally, Sirius said, "Thanks kiddo but –" the door opened and we both turned. In part as a continuation of his thought and in part as a cold greeting, Sirius said, "Dumbledore."

And there he was, like a white armoured knight – or at least like a white bearded King – out of the storybooks. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore stood in my doorway looking over the room without amusement. After my conversation with Sirius, I was primed for my impending rescue. I almost fell down in joy. I felt my eyes swim in my tears. After only one week, I was free. I could see my friends and live a life where I could get distractions from the cloud of death that wandered above my head. I was finally leaving this hell.

Dumbledore's eyes found mine, and then quickly moved to Sirius, where they stayed.

Dumbledore spoke to Sirius in a soft voice, "It's time to leave Sirius."

That was all the permission I needed. I rushed over to my trunk, threw it open, and started tossing my belongings into it. I didn't want to delay Dumbledore a moment longer.

If I had looked behind me, I would have noticed that Sirius didn't move, didn't smile, and stared straight back at Dumbledore with wide, unbelieving eyes. He spoke, "we're leaving?"

"Of course. You didn't think we were going to stay here and impose on this family any more than we had to." It wasn't a question.

And, naive as I was, I was surprise that Sirius had any desire to stay. That's when I noticed how still he was, how surprised he himself was, and how his legs had parted and his eyes narrowed in a stance I later started to associate with stubborn Sirius. But, at the time, I was simply confused by Sirius's confusion. Of course we were going to leave now. And Dumbledore was right, there was no reason to impose on my pathetic relatives any longer. So, I ignored the oppressive silence and continued to pack.

"You're just going to leave him here? After what they did?"

Wait, that wasn't right. I stopped packing now, and looked up at Dumbledore. His face was impassive, as if hoping that oppressive silence would compel Sirius to accept the inevitable. And that's when I realized that remaining at the Dursleys' was inevitable. My shock slowly faded into annoyance. Of course I'd be left here – no need to tell me what was happening, give me contract with my friends, or even let me enjoy life for a moment. Move me from one horror to another – of course. My annoyance turned to anger so quickly that I almost missed what Dumbledore said next.

"Of course. I've talked with Harry's family –"

"– They are not his family –"

"– and they've assured me that the altercation was a simple misunderstanding. Harry does not seem to be the worse for wear. I have told them in words which couldn't be stronger that I will not tolerate another altercation, and I further assure you that your previous warning has scared them more than enough."

"You think Harry's fine? Do you even see his cut!"

Dumbledore's head twitched slightly towards my direction, but his eyes never strayed from Sirius. "It isn't even bleeding."

Beyond my now boiling rage, I briefly wondered how Dumbledore could possibly know that without looking at me.

Sirius looked over at my bedside table at my clock. Anger contorted his face, but his voice was still fairly soft, "that's because he was hit two hours ago!"

Dumbledore's face went blank momentarily before reforming into calm disinterest. "Yes." He paused. "Well, I'm sure everything will be fine now." Dumbledore then turned immediately and started to make for the door.

My rage faded back into shock, pure stupefaction almost as powerful as the spell. Dumbledore had not spoken to me at all. Dumbledore had not even turned to look at me. No kind words, no twinkling smiles, no encouragement – it was as if I did not exist at all. Rooted to the spot, still holding a book that I had planned to take with me wherever we were going – presumably the Burrow – when I thought that I had a chance at freedom and hope, my stomach clenched.

Dumbledore was just out the door when, eyes swimming with water that made the light outside of my door almost too painful to look at, I shouted at his retreating back.

"What's Voldemort doing?" Dumbledore continued to walk as if he hadn't heard me, now standing quite far into the hallway. I ran under the doorframe and tried again, "Why does he want me dead?" Still no response. "Professor?" No response. "Professor!"

Dumbledore projected his voice, even though he still didn't turn his head. "Sirius," he said, "please come."

Sirius gave me an apologetic, dejected look, almost as if he was in his dog form and his master had just kicked him. He shuffled past me on his way out of the room.

There was a sound somewhere between a sigh, a croak, and a shout. Sirius's sudden jerk towards my direction was the only indication I had through the throbbing pain in my head and the new piercing pain in my chest that I had made the sound.

Sirius came towards me again and gave me a quick, brutal hug. He whispered into my ear "I'll talk to you soon."

And then they were gone.

I sank down onto my bed. I felt a vacant sort of wistfulness. After finally noticing how the Dursleys treated me, after finally stopping by Privet Drive at all, and even after being told to rescue me by Sirius – the adult who knew me the best – Dumbledore still left me here.

With a cruel flash of smouldering anger, I remembered the memory of Tom Riddle begging his Headmaster to allow him to stay at Hogwarts during the holidays. For the first time ever, I felt a twinge of sympathy for Riddle. He was just a boy abandoned in the muggle world; he hated too. He probably sat for days in dissolution, in a small, dingy bedroom just like mine, hoping to be rescued and knowing that the wizarding world was one step away, though never reachable during his summer vacation in hell.

I looked at my dirty trainers that sat on my floor, their heels pulled up revealing the soft under-leather, once white, now speckled brown. I wondered if Dumbledore knew that he was making the same mistakes Tom Riddle's headmaster made. Or maybe he just knew me too well, knew that I could never be like Riddle. Still, I felt as if I should want to be, and as if I could just reach that deep dark evil, I could control my life.

I so wanted to control my life. But I could never kill.

Without real directed thought, I stood, strode over to my trainers, picked one up, spun around and threw it violently at the bookcase in the corner of my room. I was crying again, weakling that I was. The sneaker hit Dudley's abandoned bookcase with a loud thwack, and tumbled down to the ground with four never-read books. I picked up the other shoe, and threw that one so hard that I felt my arm strain in its socket. The second projectile smashed an already broken model of a star ship from one of Dudley's childhood films. "The Centennial Falcon" it was called – or something like that. I couldn't remember, as I had never been allowed to watch films when the Dursleys were home, and I had always been locked in his cupboard when they were gone.

Looking at the re-broken toy on the ground, I honestly couldn't say that I felt any better. _Now if that toy isn't a metaphor for my life_.

I looked back at my desk, where I had placed my wand after Sirius had come into my room. I felt its pull. Or I felt my pull towards it. I wanted it, and I felt the magic between us strain to get to me. Or, I imagined as if I felt its pull on my magic. I reality, I just felt an oppressive desire to pick it up and try every curse I knew. But the ministry wouldn't like that. I almost didn't care.

Suddenly, a pain shot through my head and my stomach rolled, which shifted any desire for self-incrimination from my mind.

Knowing that I wasn't actually going to break the Statute of Secrecy, no matter how much I wanted to do so, I sat down again on my rickety bed. Staring at the bookcase, looking at me with a manic grin, was a broken plastic doll of a super hero called a "Ninja Toad" or something like that. I corrected myself; the toy was called a "Ninja Turtle" and there were four – or was it five? – different types.

I really had known originally what the toy was called. I was even mostly certain that there were four. For a moment, I wondered why I wanted to pretend that I didn't understand even the most basic of childhood cultural references. Then, with a sigh that turned into a cough, I realized that I was playing the victim. _Cedric was a victim. I'm just a plank._

At that moment, Hedwig arrived from her hunt and flew over to perch on my bed, looking at me expectantly. I put his arm out and started to pet her dewy wings. At the steady rhythm of my movement and Hedwig's soft barks, I slowly lost track of time.

I remembered all the times that my relatives had attacked me. For, I hadn't been quite honest with Sirius. Although those four times were the only times my relatives really hurt me, they had attacked me far more often. In fact, Petunia and Vernon had made a game of seeing how many of their sudden blows I could dodge in a day. And, of course, Dudley had Harry hunting, which often did hurt and which induced my first memory of accidental magic – apparating onto the roof of the school house.

I remembered all the times I had suffered physical injury from idiots or bullies; by the end of it, Hedwig had fluttered away and I sat there, noticing the sun was shining through my west-facing window. Its position suggested it was about five, but it could be later. In Surrey, I couldn't easily tell the time from the sun. Surrey was far to the south of Hogwarts. Remembering the clock, I looked at it. I was just over an hour off.

Then, hearing pounding on the stairs, I foolishly allowed myself a moment of hope that Sirius had returned take me away from the Dursleys. But, of course, it was Dudley. My fat cousin poked his head through the door and wrinkling his nose.

I think that Dudley imagined his hatred of me bothered me, as if I somehow desired his good opinion and he was hurting me by continually reminding me that he couldn't stand my presence. In fact, the opposite was true; I loved that my mere presence bothered the Dursleys. And, although I would have loved to be gone more than be here to bother them, whatever small amount of payback that I could muster in my far too long weeks here was sweet revenge.

"Freak, you're wanted downstairs for dinner and why did you break my toy?"

"It was already broken." Dudley only harrumphed in response. I continued, hoping he would leave, "I'll be down in a moment."

I wasn't quite that lucky. With an evil glint, Dudley looked at the side of my head, presumably at the cut still there. "Please don't...," he said with a sneer, "it will be fun to see what my father does this time. Maybe he can break a rib?"

But I had already stood. Noticing that I had no shirt on, I grabbed the nearest one, crumpled and sweat-soaked as it was, and put it on. I then scooped up my wand and started for the door. I half-expected Dudley to say something about my wand, but his fat ass was already gone. With a sigh half of disappointment and half of relief, I tucked the wand into my sock and walked downstairs.

The kitchen was just like I remembered it, white and shiny. With a start, I realized that I hadn't seen it my entire time back. It had been a week, and I hadn't yet entered the kitchen.

But white and shiny it remained. A hospital could not have been much cleaner. Vernon sat in his chair. He sat behind his paper, appearing to all the world as if oblivious to my entrance but for the colour that flushed up his thick neck. Petunia had just sat down as I entered, and, without saying anything, she quickly started to fill my plate with food, quite a lot of food actually. She looked the same as always, about as tall as her husband, twice the neck tall, a third the neck round. The only change was that her normally pale eyes were quite possibly paler than usual. She spared a quick glance up towards me, but, finding me returning her gaze, pursed her lips and glared at me before looking back down.

I found the glare and the extra food too weird a combination to contemplate.

So, I said "thank you" as she thrust the plate towards me, and, taking up the flatware, I tucked in, noticing not only my large portions but the real food – potatoes and all.

Sparing a glance at Dudley showed that my cousin had not become appreciably smaller. Yet he had two full plates – a huge pile of roast potatoes, an even larger pile of pork, and a small portion of neglected spinach. I wondered about the change for only a moment before deciding that I didn't care.

But too late, for my cousin seemed to notice my gaze. Dudley turned, met my eyes, and boasted, "I started boxing this past term. I'm one of the best in the county already." I didn't react. I actually didn't know how to react. Dudley tried again, "that means you'll be even easier to pound freak."

Ah, he was trying to scare me. Well, no need to threaten him with what I could do if I didn't have the ministry breathing down my neck. Instead, I gave a coy smile and said, "Didn't Dumbledore tell you that you're not allowed to do that anymore?" Dudley looked confused but Vernon rumbled deep within his throat and Petunia hissed as if in pain.

Smirking slightly, I looked back down at my plate. Even with the larger than normal portions, Petunia had served me less than half of what she had given Dudley on one plate. It only had looked large compared to my appetite. I cut into the pork, and it took effort to make myself swallow. Reflected in the pork, I saw Cedric's cold grey eyes. After several pieces, I couldn't bring myself to eat another piece. The potatoes were easier; they have never been alive, at least not in any way that mattered. They could not have looked back up at me, pleading for another chance at life. They had been cooked in the meat, though, and the residue taste became too for my stomach to handle. In one last-ditch effort to gain nutrition, I tried the spinach and found that, at last, to my liking. It was seasoned with nothing more than salt. It was wonderful.

During this ordeal, I listened to Vernon rant at Petunia about something in the news. "I don't know what the Israelis are doing," he said, "the Palestinians come out of this scot free." He grunted, then continued, "I mean, they send rockets into your neighbourhood and what do you do? You arrest a couple guys who _failed_ to blow people up." He huffed and took another swig of his stout, then another bite of his pork – trying to chew half of it at a time. Mouth still half-full, he continued, "It makes about as much sense as what the yanks were thinking in '91. You'd already beaten the Saddam bastard's army – why not press all the way to Bagdad I ask you? You don't just let them off. You kill them.

"You know, our fathers knew that. They learned it against the bloody Germans. You fire bomb Dresden because otherwise they'll bomb you. I tell you, no fight in them, no fight at all." Vernon spared one vicious look for me as he said this. Then he continued, "Those bloody Jews used to know what's what. The Six Days War – now that was a good war. Ten enemies attack you and what do you do? You bomb them to bloody hell. Right Dudley?"

Dudley's head whipped up to stare at his father open mouthed. He had been playing a handheld game. He sat there for several moments just staring at his father, clearly unsure of what to say in response to a question that I was fairly sure he never heard. Vernon saved his son, however, as he answered his own question after only a potato break. "Exactly – that's what you do. Dudley knows it. I've seen him in the ring. You pound the piss-heads to hell and don't worry about their human rights," he said the phrase as if it was a curse. "They don't get rights if they throw bombs at you." Vernon paused to eat another chunk of pork.

Having finished with my food, and not wanting to hear Vernon continue his night-time rant against another group of people who were no doubt the real victims in the mess, I asked to be excused. No one spoke but Petunia nodded jerkily.

I stood slowly from my seat, noticing for the first time that I was rather sore, and made my way softly to the door. I opened it and closed it behind me noiselessly, still having my perfected technique after all of these years.

Free from sight, I bounded back up into my room, taking my bounds as quietly as the activity allowed. In my room, I let out a sigh of relief. I knew nothing about the Palestinians and only a little more about the Israelis. I knew Israel was "the promised land," whatever that meant, and that it was the area where Jesus said some things and was taken into the sky. That was about it. The Dursleys had never taken me to their church. So, everything I learnt about religion, I learnt from the prayers in school.

None of it meant much to me. I knew that God didn't come to you in your cupboard when you cried seeking relief from a broken bone that your Aunt and Uncle refused to treat, or when you lost your sixth friend in four days because your cousin would beat up anyone who talked to you, or for any of the other desires that had tugged at my heart before I turned seven and gave both God and happiness up altogether.

Then again, no Wizard had come to my rescue either and they were real.

Thinking about this religion stuff got me thinking about Dumbledore and his abandonment. Dumbledore never came to my aid. Dumbledore had come today only to make sure Sirius left. Dumbledore had not take me with him. Dumbledore had never come before, even after I told him about what he saw in the Mirror of Erised. Dumbledore had not been there in my first year when I faced Voldemort and his puppet-professor. Nor had Dumbledore been able to help me in my second year against the basilisk. Fawkes helped me, yes – Dumbledore, no. Dumbledore came at the end of last year, rescuing me from Crouch. Yet, he had then let the man be kissed, thus allowing Fudge – the Minister for Magic – to ignore Voldemort's resurrection.

And he hadn't helped Sirius either, although Dumbledore was the Head of the Wizarding Court. I knew nothing about politics, but I was fairly confident that the heads of courts could demand a trial for prisoners. Dumbledore should have done just that. But he had just let Crouch's extrajudicial bullshit go unanswered, just as he had allowed Fudge to ignore Voldemort's rise.

And that was why I wanted to know what Voldemort was doing. Once Voldemort started killing, Fudge would have no choice but to listen to us. Until then, I also wanted to help.

Of course, I knew Dumbledore wouldn't allow me to help. And there was no reason for him to allow me to help. What could I do?

I knew nothing about how the wizarding world fought a war. Did we have armies? I knew that we had the Aurors, and that there were other types of plods, for lack of a better term. But how many were around and what were their capabilities? For that matter, I hadn't a clue what the capabilities of the Death Eaters were.

As I sat down on my bed for what seemed to be the millionth time that day, I winced as the bruises on my chest constricted. The pain brought a brief barrage of images from Vernon's earlier attack. It also brought back the words he had said: "no fight in you." Of course I hadn't been about to use my wand on him. I wasn't Voldemort. But, if I had used magic, then Vernon would certainly have come out the worse for it. Yet, the Death Eaters were not going to be his Uncle.

They were viscous, or so everyone said.

_I need to learn how to fight them_. With that thought, the lethargy that had clung to me dissipated fully and I shot up, ignoring my bruises and soreness altogether. _I need to fight them!_ I grabbed my most recent defence book, ink, and parchment. I started to flip through the book looking for any spell that could possibly help me in a fight against the Death Eaters.

And I almost immediately became impossibly flustered. Every several pages was a new topic. It gave some introductory material, then a cute little anecdote, and finally ended with several paragraphs about known behaviours and weaknesses. For example, under the section on Vampires, it told me that a Vampire was highly allergic to Garlic, could not travel during the day, were very fair skinned, and drank the blood of animals, preferably of large magical animals. I could learn more information from muggle television!

I slammed the book closed and started to write all the spells that I could think of on the parchment. About five minutes in, I realized that this endeavour was pointless. Writing these spells down wouldn't help me learn them. I already had learnt them. Writing these spells down wasn't, in fact, doing me any good, except, I guess, giving me the illusion of productivity.

But I could feel the productivity's lie. I couldn't afford to lie to myself anymore. So, I paced a little and tried to think of ways that I could get this information. I thought of owling Dumbledore, but discarding the idea almost immediately. It was completely out of the question. Hermione would know, but she would inevitably question his motives. Sirius would know too, but he probably wouldn't be allowed to answer.

Still, it was my best option. And, collapsing on my bed, already half asleep, I decided. In the morning, I would write Sirius, asking him for suggestions for books of curses, hexes, and other spells of nastiness. In my sleep deprived mind, I chuckled slightly at the use of the word "nastiness." Then the chuckle turned into a deep laugh.

I laughed and laughed and then laugh until I cried, tears of joy, tears of pain, tears of rage. I might finally do something. I might not be helpless next time. No – I vowed not to be helpless next time. I would never again just watch a friend of mine die. And with the pain of my wide, jagged grin, I fell into a sleep plagued by green light and wide grey eyes.


End file.
